b) The kind of sex I like to have doesn't generally result in pregnancy, unless someone brings along a jar of David Crosby's jizz.

Since no one I know is on one-eyed-handshake terms with Mr. Crosby, I can assume I'm safe for the moment.

So what brought on this incredibly unlikely and scream-inducing bout with my subconscious? It's hard to say, exactly. I often sleep with the TV on, so it's possible some knocked-up bitch's drama on the screen was leaking through into my sleeping brain. It's not like I have some secret longing to be a mother. In fact, the very thought of it makes me want to guzzle a six pack and throw darts at a giant inflatable penis. My maternal instinct extends as far as my cats, and even then, I draw the line at breastfeeding.

Don't get me wrong; I don't dislike (most) children. In fact, I get on quite well with the crayons-and-Play-Doh set. I'm probably not any more mature than the average fourth grader. But when I've reached my limit, I've reached my limit, and it's essential to me that I'm able to make a graceful escape when that time comes, to retreat to my sophisticated adult world of drinking beer, watching reality TV, dressing my cats as hookers, and having the Play-Doh all to myself. When it comes time to eat, I don't want to be sharing my dip with someone who's probably just had his or her fingers knuckle deep in a nostril before reaching into the chip bag. And if I had my own kid, people would likely look down on me if I didn't change a diaper now and then. Fuck that - I've never changed a diaper in my life, and I intend to continue that trend until I reach an age where I have to start changing my own diapers. Unless I can con some hot little nurse into doing it for me.

At least at my age, and being single now, people have finally stopped asking me when I'm going to have a baby, as if I've been playing the overture all my life and everyone is waiting for Act I to start, wherein I push a 9-pound squirming human out of my screaming lady bits, let it maul my nipples mercilessly for a couple of years, and am thus fulfilled as a woman, finally. You know what? I think I'll just go stand over there, where the man batter isn't flying around the room. Thanks.

Just to be on the safe side, though, from now on, I'm using a condom when I masturbate.

12 of you felt the overwhelming need to say somethin':

How about looking at it in a less literal way? Are you pregnant with your "new self"? It sounds like you've been indulging your creativity lately...are you about to give birth to a fabulous new piece of creativity that will take you in a new, but scary, direction?

That would be something to see on one of those hidden camera shows.Let me paint the scene for you:It's a crowded waiting room at some vet's office. Some lady comes in with a kitten and while waiting her turn, proceeds to (through some set up where she has a bottle under her shirt or something to that effect) breastfeed her young one. Can you imagine the reaction of the other people in the room? Of course you'd have to make sure that the staff is in on the joke so they can play along like it's no big deal.